


What Masks Don't Hide

by American_Ghostwriter



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Majo no Takkyuubin | Kiki's Delivery Service
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coping with trauma, Dark Past, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Inspired by Art, Kiki's Delivery Service AU, M/M, Narcotic Mention, Not as Intense as it Seems - I Promise, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Queer Themes, Satinalia (Dragon Age), alcohol mention, mentions of queerphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22310740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/American_Ghostwriter/pseuds/American_Ghostwriter
Summary: Months after fleeing Tevinter, Dorian Pavus has managed to scrape out a place for himself in the world. He has a functional job, a home filled with friends from across the world, and a content life away from the haunts of his past. What he was not prepared for was developing attraction to The Iron Bull, the man who helped him survive in the mountain city of Skyhold. Now the first night of Satinalia arrives and Dorian has a few ideas for how he might work up the courage to give into his heart for once.DISCLAIMER: I do not give consent to the reposting of this fiction on any other app or website. If you'd like to help translate this for accessibility, private message me and I will happily work with you.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25
Collections: The Collected Fanfics for the Adoribull Reverse Bang 2019





	What Masks Don't Hide

**Author's Note:**

> So, this would have been the full story, had my computer not crapped out on me. I've written as much as I could with what I remembered of the original version. I'm not gonna lie - losing my computer and the original version of this story really crippled my motivation to fix it. The final 4,000 words will be posted as soon as I can get them written. Apologies again.
> 
> I will link the art piece that inspired this work as soon as the artists posts it.

Dorian had never been a morning person before Skyhold. Late nights of drink and drugs and debauchery didn’t make for early waking. But from his bedroom connected to Charger’s Baked Goods, where the mountain’s breeze wafted the smell of bread and qunari pastries through the windows, Dorian had quickly learned that it was more rewarding. Though the bakery itself was yet to open, the smell of its ovens would draw customers long before Krem unlocked its door. If he was lucky, Dorian could make off with something small before actually having to get to work.

Although Charger’s did make traditional Fereldan bread for the less adventurous, the scent that always caught Dorian’s attention was the Seheronese bread. Manakish was his favorite, with its sharp sumac and sweet marjoram that drew him leagues away. He had never imagined that the qunari had such similar cuisine to Tevinter, but it had been a pleasant surprise the first time he had wandered through the door.

The stiff, coarse wool of his blankets was tolerable in the early hours of the morning when his senses were drawn instead to the smells in the air. The sun had not yet risen, the sky’s transition from dark blue to almost purple just barely visible through the shoddy shutters, and Dorian lay across his straw mattress with his eyes closed. He would stay this way for a few minutes more. His mind was still a little foggy from sleep. Good. It meant he had a moment away from the demands of customers and the cluttered noise of his own mind. He could let his mind wander harmlessly on the memories of rich spices and the giddiness of young children who thought they’d gotten away with stealing from the cook.

“ _ Are you going to lie there all morning? _ " The voice was quiet but scathing. Like a nuisance of a fly, but larger. “ _ Don’t you have plans? Things to be doing today? _ ”

A familiar weight slipped across his mattress and up his arm, coming to rest in a coiled pile on his chest. Dorian opened a single eye to peer at his familiar. “Don’t you have anything better to do than to ruin my morning, Felix?” The snake peered at him, lifting his head imperiously at Dorian. Had he the ability to roll his eyes, Dorian had no doubt that he would do so.

“ _ I’ve worked my share for the day, _ ” Felix said. His voice filled with a distant sort of fondness as he practically crooned, “ _ No more rats near the bakery, no sir. _ ” Then the dark-scaled viper shook his head, cocking his head as he looked at Dorian. “ _ I thought you were excited about today _ .”

“I am,” Dorian protested. The words sounded too reflexive even to him. “I’m simply...nervous, as well.”

Tinny laughter filled his head. “ _ Chicken. _ ”

“Sod off!” Dorian snapped, pushing himself up off the bed as Felix slithered away quickly. Dorian looked about for his familiar, but all he caught was the sound of a chuckle and a shadowy flash of what might have been a tail disappearing into a hole in the wall.

Pressing the flats of his palms into his eyes, Dorian groaned as being awake actually set in. Nothing to be done about it now. He stripped out of his bedclothes, pulling out a simple white blouse and high-waisted trousers from the humble armoire. Ignoring the crack in vanity’s mirror, Dorian slicked pomade through his hair as he styled it. The vanity and pomade had been the first and, so far, only extravagant purchase Dorian had made as soon as he had the money. They made the sparsely decorated room feel more pleasant.

Satisfied, Dorian made his way out of the bedroom and through the house. In the halls, the other residents milled about, some finishing getting dressed as they went. Dorian smiled at them as they passed by, exchanging morning pleasantries and occasionally friendly jabs. There were currently seven other residents in the almshouse with Dorian. Sometimes new faces came through, oftentimes leaving as soon as they’d arrived, moving on to better prospects as they got back on their feet. But Charger’s original seven never seemed to have any interest in leaving. For better or worse, they had made the bakery their home. Even the thought of any of them moving on felt wrong to Dorian.

The almshouse’s kitchen was small and cramped, much like the rest of its rooms. The wall separating it from the back of the bakery seemed like it had been an afterthought in the design of the building. Perhaps it had been, back when the building had just been a bakery and greenery.

Dorian strode the length of the room, making a beeline for the door to the bakery proper. The heat of the ovens hit him the second he drew open the door. It was uncomfortably warm, but it was here that Dorian could practically taste the spices used. And it was here at this early hour that Dorian could find Bull.

The Iron Bull was something of an impromptu leader of the almshouse and the latest proprietor of the bakery. He had been the one to welcome Dorian into their boisterous family. Currently, Bull was busying himself with what looked to be the last of the day's baking.

Dorian leaned against the doorframe, watching as The Iron Bull set a couple of trays of ma'amoul to cool. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, dusted off his apron, and looked about at his work with his hands on his hips. There was a satisfied, if slightly tired, smile on his lips.

"Are some of those walnut and fig?" Dorian asked. "Those are my favorite."

The Iron Bull turned to look his way, smile sharpening to a smirk, "Paying customers get to have favorites. Thieving mages who act like no one notices them taking a dozen katayef on their way out do not."

Dorian frowned, his brows drawing closer. He fought a smile as he looked past Bull as if in thought, "I wonder who that might be, giving you so much trouble...quite the menace."

Bull shrugged, "Not really. Just a pretty face and a charming smile that thinks he can get away with the little things."

"The ways you wound me, sir!" Dorian pressed his palms against his chest, nursing the verbal wound with exaggerated wincing. He looked over to see The Iron Bull shaking his head as his shoulders shook with laughter. The sight made Dorian’s breath catch, reminding him of what he had been planning for weeks, and he suddenly felt as though it was difficult to breathe. Swallowing down the anxiety, he took a slow step closer.

“Bull…” Speaking felt like walking through a bog. To distract himself just a bit, he focused his eyes more on the cooling loaves and pastries than The Iron Bull himself. Did he look nonchalant? Or did he look uninterested? Distracted?  _ Kaffas _ , why did this have to be so difficult. “Were you planning on closing shop early for Satinalia?”

He looked up to gauge The Iron Bull’s response. Bull was scratching his stubbled chin in thought, seemingly weighing the idea in his mind. Slowly, he said, “Maybe. Not likely to get much business past evening.”

“If you do, I was thinking maybe you could show me around Skyhold,” Dorian suggested. He watched Bull carefully for a reaction. “Since you know the town so well. And I’m not particularly familiar with the festival.”

The Iron Bull gave a soft hum in answer. Dorian waited, watching attentively as Bull hung his apron on the wall. He wished the man wasn’t so damned difficult to read. For the handful of months that Dorian had known him, Bull had always been strangely proficient at keeping a straight face. Probably saved him fortunes in games of wicked grace. “Eh, why not? It’ll be fun to go with someone who’s never been.”

Dorian tried not to visibly deflate. Picking up the pieces of his pride, Dorian reminded himself that he still wasn’t aware of how exactly The Iron Bull perceived him. There was no need to get ahead of himself. 

Before he could say any more, Bull reached for a pastry box from under the table. He made quick work of stuffing something into it and sealing it with the Charger’s ribbon and stamp. Passing it off to Dorian, he said, “These are going to Cole - new request that he asked for.”

Dorian looked down at the box and back at Bull, “What are they?”

The grin that broke out across The Iron Bull’s face could have lit up the room. He reached behind him, picking something up off the tray, and presented it to Dorian.

It was a cookie. Most probably a shortbread cookie, based on what it looked like. There was a light coating of icing on the top. The shape was unmistakable. “Cole ordered cookies shaped like you?” he asked, the words coming slowly with confusion.

Bull looked over the cookie as if admiring it, “Yeah, he sure did. Squirrely one, that kid. But he pays well, and that’s the important thing.” He put the cookie back down, his expression falling back to controlled professionalism. “Oh, and you’ve got a delivery. Madame de Fer downtown called last night; said she had something that needed to get to a friend before the festivities tonight. Here’s the address.” Bull pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, handing it over. “Think you can manage?” 

Dorian scoffed, “I’ll be back before midday.” He waved goodbye with his free hand as he headed out. The cool air of the shop portion of the bakery was a relief to step into, but Dorian wasted no time in making his way to the entrance. He waved his hand before the hat stand beside the door. The air shimmered as the invisibility spell fell away to reveal the well-worn handle of his broomstick.

Plucking it from the stand, Dorian looped the package's ribbon over the handle of his broom and strode out of the bakery. Even in the early mornings, the Skyhold streets were bustling. People of every race milled through the streets on their way to work, weaving their ways through the trolleys, automobiles, and each other. At this hour, it would have been a disaster to try and get around Skyhold within a decent amount of time. Dorian thanked the Maker that he had been born a mage. Flying beat the streetcars any day.

Mounting his broom, Dorian made sure he had enough space between himself and the passerby before he kicked off the ground. The first moment of being free of gravity was always the most shocking. Even after all these years, Dorian felt his stomach twist at the sudden weightlessness. Then he righted himself and ascended high above the people of Skyhold. It had been a couple of months since he had started his delivery service, but a few people still stopped and stared as he flew. Kids still pointed up for their friends to see and shouted greetings to him. They were almost always half-garbled by the wind, but it made him smile nonetheless.

He shivered in the crisp mountain air. It wasn’t so bad in the previous months when the summer weather had kept the cold in check. But Satinalia marked the end of even the moderate autumn chill and soon it would be positively frigid during flight. Dorian would have to pick up a coat before long. He frowned at the thought, hoping he’d have enough coin for both the list he was picking up today and the coat.

Cole’s home was not particularly far from the bakery itself. It took little more than a couple of minutes by broom. Dorian set down before the small cottage. The sight of the home always felt a little strange in its surroundings. It almost looked as though someone had plucked the little house from an ancient wood and, after shoving the other houses unceremoniously out of the way, dropped it in the space between. Or perhaps it had been the opposite? Perhaps Cole’s cottage had sprouted up from the ground, pushing away the houses around it, like a weed between cracks in the stone.

Dorian shook away the fanciful ideas and approached the door. He gave it a soft knock, pushing it open in the next second, “Cole? Are you home?” Normally, Dorian wouldn’t have wandered into a house unbidden, but he had long since learned that, with Cole, it was easier to invite himself in. Were he to actually wait for an answer, he would likely be waiting on Cole’s porch for the better half of a week.

The sitting room was cramped with miscellaneous knickknacks and junk. Pretty colored bottles, little ceramic statues, whittled animals, piles of patterned beads, and other small shiny items littered the tables and shelves about the room. It was something akin to the worst organized curio shop. But the floor was clear and the place well lit, making it easy for Dorian to make his way through.

“Cole!” he called again, making his way past the kitchen and up the stairs. “Is anyone here?”

Halfway up the stairs, Dorian heard a voice behind him. “It’s rude to wander around peoples’ houses.” Dorian jumped a foot in the air, his heartbeat suddenly too loud in his ears, and he swore profusely in Tevene. Behind him, Cole continued speaking. “That’s what people have told me.” He paused as if in thought, pale eyes looking into the distance as if he could see through the walls. Then his eyes refocused and he cocked his head at Dorian. “Have you brought my order? The cookies?”

Dorian smiled softly, offering the boxed cookies, “I have.”

Cole took the box from him and started to gently slip the ribbon off the box. He popped the box open and, though Dorian knew what the contents looked like, Dorian couldn’t help the bemused chuckle at the sight of them. “Cole, I have to ask: why did you request they look like Bull?”

Holding up a cookie from the box, Cole set his piercing eyes on Dorian. It was only ever when Cole was going to say the most disjointed statements that he seemed to actually look at people instead of through them. “I wanted to know how he sees himself,” Cole said. “Or how he sees me seeing him? Or how he sees me? A child’s drawing presented with pride, simplicity and complexity combined, a friendly smile unseen.”

Dorian blinked at Cole, knowing better than to hope for an elaboration. Instead, he smiled and gave a nod. “Alright, Cole. Do you have your answer then?”

Cole nodded, slowly biting off one of the cookie’s horns. He chewed thoughtfully, looking up again at Dorian, “You don’t have your mask yet.”

“Mask?”

“For the festival,” Cole explained. “You don’t have one.”

Dorian was always put off by the way Cole would sometimes state facts he had no feasible way of knowing. Originally, he had thought perhaps Cole was another mage. If he was, Dorian was certain now that he would never find out. There was no visible proof that Cole could do magic, nor any equipment for spellcasting or even magical inquiry.

“No, I don’t yet.” The admittance would mean next to nothing to Cole, but it helped Dorian maintain the illusion that the boy was asking instead of declaring.

“You should go to Lavellan’s shop,” Cole said. The Iron Bull cookie was now entirely headless. “The one on the outskirts of downtown.”

Dorian frowned, “The smith?”

Cole nodded emphatically, eyes drifting back down to the cookie box, though he didn’t sound distracted when he said, “He always makes masks around this time. For Satinalia.”

“I’m sure they’re expensive…”

“Sometimes,” Cole admitted. His face suddenly lit up, “Would you like to see the one he made me?”

Cole didn’t wait for an answer. He took off up the stairs, brushing past Dorian with barely a feather’s touch, his feet strangely silent despite how quickly he went. Dorian waited awkwardly on the stairs, shifting his weight from foot to foot. It wasn’t a full minute later that Cole had rushed back down. The cookie box had been left wherever Cole had gone, replaced by a strange metal disk in his hands.

“Look!” Cole lifted the disk to his face and Dorian had to stop himself from jumping back in surprise. The mask was surprisingly simple; an oblong sheet of silvery-white metal with three circular holes in it. Two of them functioned something like eyes, with one slightly bigger than the other, that seemed to swallow up Cole’s eyes into the darkness. The third was semi-centered towards the bottom, like a mouth agape. The mask was perfectly smooth, with no blemishes in either the curve of its surface nor the pale coloration. It was both charming and disconcerting at the same time.

“He says it’s based on a spirit of protection,” Cole continued. “He says this one is the type that would live in trees.”

“It suits you,” Dorian admitted. “I’ll check there.”

Cole lowered the mask, offering a friendly smile. He pulled a small coin purse from his belt and handed it over. Dorian didn’t need to count it. Cole always seemed to have the exact amount ready. “Tell The Iron Bull I said thank you,” he said. “And ‘hello’.”

Deep in the heart of Skyhold, the quaint cottages and tiny shops gave way in the wake of the wealthier area. The houses became larger, businesses growing upwards to two- and three-stories. Clothes on the pedestrians became more vivid in color and more extravagant in detail. The city guards became more visible, whether that was due to the higher number or the drop in subtlety, Dorian was never sure.

Madame de Fer’s delivery had been a menial one, practically unnecessary in Dorian’s opinion. Traveling across downtown to deliver a parcel the size and weight of a tea set from one patronizing noble to an ungrateful one was hardly a task that needed delegation. One of the worst deliveries Dorian could take one was absolutely the kind when two nobles hired him for trivial reasons and treated the whole damned endeavor like a spectacle. At least they paid well.

Dorian now made his way through the streets on foot. He knew roughly where Lavellan’s shop was, had heard people talk of it, but it was easier to fly to the general location and find the actual place on foot. Mostly because it was difficult to ask for directions from a broom. It only took a few short conversations for Dorian to find himself standing before the shop in question.

Weapon stands filled the window displays, but there were neither swords nor knives rested upon them. They had presumably been cleared out, replaced instead with a variety of delicately crafted metal masks, various pieces of ornate jewelry, and statuesque figures. What appeared to be a dragon puppet the size of a cat hung from strings to suspend it above the display. The sun caught its luster just right, drawing attention to the intricate interlocking pieces that made up its form.

Dorian stepped inside eagerly, looking about at the metalwork available for sale. Most of the spaces were taken over by pieces for the festival. Dragons and birds seemed to be the most popular motifs. Leaning over a half mask of wire-made feathers, Dorian turned his attention to the price marker and tried not to grimace.

“Welcome to Dragon’s Hoard,” a soft voice said. Dorian looked up to see the shopkeep walk out from behind the counter. They smiled kindly at him, pulling at the scar on their cheek. “Can I help you find anything?”

Dorian shook his head, “Oh, I’m just perusing. Thank you.”

“You should let him pick a mask for you.” Dorian recognized that voice. He had heard it for the last couple of months. He turned to see Krem slowly closing the shop’s door behind him. Krem offered him an eager smile, nodding towards the shopkeeper. “Master Lavellan has a knack for finding the perfect one for each customer.”

Lavellan shook their head, though they looked amused at the notion, “You flatter me, Aclassi, but I’m hardly a miracle worker.” They turned away from the two men, waving their hand. “Call if you should need me.”

Dorian looked between the two and then back the Krem, “Didn’t you have a shift today?”

Krem walked closer, waving his hand dismissively, “I got Skinner to cover for me. She hates Satinalia anyway.” His eyes widened slightly, his gaze faltering for a second before he gestured towards the masks. “Besides, I still need a mask.”

Krem reached out and plucked a bauta mask off its stand, inspecting it closely. He seemed to lose his intense interest with the lengthening silence. Glancing out the corner of his eyes, Krem asked, “So, I hear you asked Chief to escort you around town for the festival tonight.”

“I did,” Dorian admitted. “I thought it would be more enjoyable to go with someone who knows Skyhold and what’s expected of me.”

“Uh-huh,” Krem said. He exchanged the mask for a new one with clockwork overlapping across its face. “And it has nothing to do with the fact that you fancy him, of course.”

Dorian’s head snapped to Krem so quick, he thought he might give himself vertigo. “What?”

Krem cocked his head down, looking at Dorian incredulously. Dorian gave a sigh of defeat, “I suppose I’ve not been subtle.”

“Oh, you’ve been subtle enough,” Krem said. “I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been looking.”

Dorian put a hand on Krem’s shoulder, “Krem, you’re a good friend to me-”

“For the Chief,” Krem said quickly, saving Dorian his pride. “I was trying to find out if you were interested in him, for him.”

“Why?” Dorian asked. It was a foolish question, he knew. Logically, he knew the answer, but it didn’t seem to make sense to his head. He couldn’t even seem to actually acknowledge the idea. It was as though, if he actually let the thought fully form, it would slip through his hands.

Krem rolled his eyes, “Why else?” He put the mask back to its place and turned to fully face Dorian. His brows pulled together, a soft frown on his lips, and Dorian had never seen him look so serious. “He fancies you, too.”

“He doesn’t seem to.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Krem’s expression softened a fraction. He almost looked amused. “He isn’t going to do or say anything that would make you uncomfortable. Chief likes to....let people choose, I suppose. Decided whether or not they want to approach him.

“But you’re the only person he lets be in the kitchen without helping out. He bakes manakish first because he figured out that the smell wakes you up. When he learned you’re allergic to stripweed, he stopped cooking with it entirely.” Krem put his hands on Dorian’s shoulders. “He just doesn’t come out and say it.”

Dorian swore under his breath, wishing he had noticed any of the things The Iron Bull had been doing differently. He supposed he had no real frame of reference. It wasn’t as though he had known The Iron Bull as long as the others at Charger’s. And if Bull was waiting to see if Dorian really was interested in him, Dorian may have never actually found out.

Knowledge of Bull’s intentions aside, it was hardly as though Dorian had personal experience in dealing with affections and courting. Any previous relations had been mostly in passing, the passions of two young men who knew that it could last no further than the sunrise. It involved wandering eyes, the biting of lips, slipping away somewhere unseen, and then never speaking of the meeting again.

But Dorian was no longer in Tevinter. He no longer had to worry about finding his interests in stolen moments or hiding his attraction from his family. As far away from where he had once called home, Dorian could actually openly pursue anyone he wished. So why was it that it still felt as though he needed to hide?

“And what should I do?” Dorian demanded, trying to keep his voice quiet. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to overhear. “Drag him off to some private corner and tell him that I do everything I can to see him laugh? That sometimes, when he speaks, I forget to listen from thinking of how his lips might taste? How every moment in his presence makes me feel happier than I’ve ever been?”

Krem yanked his hands off Dorian, gesturing widely about them. “Yes!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Krem’s tone wasn’t angry, but it was colored with a hint of fatigue.

Dorian ran his hand over his face, trying to school his expression to one of neutrality. He didn’t want to scratch deeper into the surface of why it felt like such an impossible task. The memories his anxiety hid were ones he would rather run screaming from, and he had already physically run from the place of their happening. The wounds were not fresh, but they were still far from healed.

Krem’s eyes widened as he watched Dorian, taking a slight step back. It was a gesture of giving him space, Dorian realized, as Krem gave Dorian’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.


End file.
